Private Heat by Robert E. Bailey Page A

than I wanted it to be. We stopped and crouched next to my car while I surveyed the street for Randy’s playmates. They had left Randy to play this hand alone.
    I keyed the radio. “Come and get us, seven. We’re walking north toward your location.”
    I heard Ron’s van fire up and thought about staying covered by the car until he arrived, but Randy had left the garage door open, creating a cavern of darkness. I grabbed Karen by the hand and led her north up the sidewalk, away from the garage.
    I found Randy’s pals. At the corner of Burton and Union I could see a patrol car stopped with the rollers on and the red Escort stopped next to it. I kept the pistol in my hand, but with my arm straight and close to my side. Ron pulled on his head lights and eased his van up to us.
    A good watcher deactivates the door frame light switches in his surveillance vehicle so that he doesn’t get toasted on a nighttime surveillance. Ron was a very good watcher.
    We climbed in through the sliding back door of the van and sat in the rear seats. Behind us, in the cargo area, Ron’s video equipment was set up and strapped in place to keep it from crashing around. I pulled the door shut and slid aside the heavy curtain that concealed the rear of the van from folks who might want to look in through the windshield. “This is Karen Smith,” I said. I pointed my weapon at the floor between my knees and eased the hammer down. “Take us around the block.”
    Karen finally pulled her hand away from her face. “I’m not supposed to leave the house,” she said.
    â€œDoesn’t matter,” I said. “The telephone line is cut.”
    By the time we rounded the block, the scout car had arrived at the curb in front of the house. Ron drove past his old surveillance position, parked south of the house, and turned off his lights. The patrol officer stood on the porch in front of the door. Several distinct gunshots cracked from inside the house. The patrol officer fled the porch for the cover of his vehicle. Squatting, he opened the door, let the window down, and snaked out the microphone. Peeking up over the front deck, just by the door post, he—I have little doubt—called the cavalry.
    Ron still had the nine-one-one operator on the line. He informed herthat the occupants were outside the residence and only the prowler was inside.
    â€œTell them that the door into the house from the garage has been forced, and that the sliding door at the south end of the house is unlocked,” I said.
    Ron conveyed the information, but had to repeat it three times. The fusillade of shots from inside the house stopped. The ratty red Escort screeched up. Chuck and Paulie bailed out and dramatically covered the house with their pistols while hunkering around the corners of the vehicle in the darkness.
    â€œTake us around again,” I said.
    Ron hung up on the emergency operator. “Ditsy,” he said and shook his head. He pulled his lights on and eased us to the other side of the block.
    â€œPull up to the white house,” I said. “Any port looks good in a storm.” From our earlier recon of the neighborhood, I knew that the white house was located directly behind Karen’s. Ron pulled up to the curb. I leaned up between the seats and pushed the front passenger door open.
    â€œPaulie?” a harshly whispered voice challenged from the shrubbery next to the house.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing?” asked Karen in a shrill and panicked voice.
    I swung my left arm around Karen and clamped my hand over her mouth.
    â€œFriend of Paulie’s,” said Ron. “Hurry up!”
    Randy bolted from his cover and staggered a crazy-legged sprint to the truck, pulling off a black ski mask as he ran.
    â€œThank God, man,” he said as he bailed into the front seat and pulled the door shut. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
    I let go of Karen and she